The Rose of Charity
by SilentTrainConductor
Summary: Product of Headache. Al contemplates.


_This fic was written some time ago, in February I believe. I shared it with my friends on livejournal, and have finally decided to post it up here. A note about this story, it was written without any idea of where it would lead, with nothing in mind, I just started with the first sentence and wrote until the end. _

_Also known as a "Product of a Headache"_

_Happy Easter to those who celebrate it. _

**The Rose of Charity **

It was her eyes that captured his soul first. Those familiar downcast eyes as if she could take you in her into her arms, and would hold you until all pain faded. The one he considered a mother when his own had left him. The one he imagined brushing his hair back and kissing him upon his forehead. Promising to protect him through the worst of his days.

How many times had he prayed to her? She was the only one who knew his deepest secrets as a child. How long had it been since he had spoken to her?

It had been so long. Ever since he had lost his father. Since cancer had claimed his life. It wasn't the first time he had felt betrayal. But it was the first time it hurt so deeply. He had felt so betrayed. He had trusted her so much, oh Mother of God, how much it had hurt. He had prayed to Him. He had prayed to _her_. Knowing, believing, he could trust her of all.

It was all in vain.

They did not respond to his prayers to his desires. His father was still taken away from him, and so did young Albert's belief in a loving God. Had God truly loved him, He would have saved his father. He would have saved him. Then little Albert and Trudy would have been a true family. They would have had Christmas with hugs and kisses, embraces filled with warmth and joyful laughs.

They would have had a home they could race around in. They could have had a little backyard where little Albert would teach young Trudy how to play hopscotch, or play dress-up. She loved wearing the silliest of clothes. Bright, happy colors.

Al sighed, and rubbed his hand across his face at the What ifs? He then dug into his pocket for a match. It was his last one. His last one and a cigar to match it. He had to buy a new lighter; he couldn't go living on the Project's matches forever. He gingerly brought his hand back out of the pocket, leaving the match be for now.

Al blinked away the moist that was gathering in his eyes, and looked up.

You saved him today. You listened to me, after all these years, after all this pain, I spoke, and you listened. You saved him.

Why can't you bring him home? Why do you need him so? Why?

Why must those I love leave? Why must you take them away from me? What have I done?

And…why…did you listen to me? Shot in the head. He should've been dead. He should have died. Like everyone else.

Am I to honor you? Am I to trust you?

After all I have been through…am I to suddenly come running back into your arms?

Those arms they told me would always be willing to take me in when I needed them.

Those arms I had deserted.

Am I to seriously believe you never deserted me?

After mom, after dad…after Trudy…after Lisa…after 'Nam, after Beth…

Am I to have faith?

After such pain, and such hurt…after all those lives I have loved and lost.

Am I to believe?

After Sam?

After leading him through so many disasters, after saving so many lives, and bringing such happiness that Al had wished so many times he could have….to so many people. Bringing back hope in creating a better world. A hope that had seemed so impossible.

And here was Al Calavicci, an Average Joe, helping, aiding, Sam make such hope appear. Hope.

What a funny feeling.

To have hope.

He had to admit. He had thought he lost it when he came back from 'Nam. Sam brought it back.

Not You.

Or did You?

I recall...so many different meetings with Sam. So many times has he changed the past, that we meet so many times under different circumstances.

But we always manage to meet and become fast friends.

Was that You?

And I always manage to help him achieve _his_ dream. Which he managed to make my own as well.

Al bowed his head in completely frustration. His gut twisted back and forth as his head pounded in confusion. Religion was a bewildering thing. To have Faith in Him. It was something he scoffed at not days before…

But he found himself wanting. He found himself needing Him. Needing her. He looked up into her eyes again, and he let a sigh escape. Her presence was so familiar. So achingly there. Not a strict mother, but a loving one. One that, and Al finally knew, never left him.

While he faced his pain, she gave him small doses of strength. Strength he always had. And always will have. Not because of her, but because of her help. As his eyes continued growing moist at the constant pounding image of Sam's bleeding face, her figure shimmered. The colors of the tinted windows danced upon her, lightly.

Al may have not completed rushed back into her arms, but at least he had finally decided to turn around and look into her face once more.

He wasn't ready yet. Her mournful gaze seemed to know this. But it also said that she would be waiting. Waiting for her child. She would be waiting with open arms, forever and always.

Al shifted, and took out the match, and he fingered his cigar tenderly, but allowed that to stay within his pocket. He struck the match and slowly lit the candle that was there before him. The flame flickered timidly, and Al quickly extinguished the match with a wave of his hand.

He gazed intently into the her face, the familiar downcast eyes. Al then turned and let the flame grow stronger, giving light to the once dark and empty church.

She would be waiting.

And maybe, one day, maybe, Al would deicide to come back.

When Sam came home.

Maybe then.

Or maybe before.

Maybe.


End file.
